“I hadn’t thought of that.” Connie felt like a fool.
“You also left three college students on your jury. Mr. Darget, I’m going to let you in on a secret. Students don’t know shit from apple butter. They can’t decide what classes they’re going to take next semester. How do you expect them to decide on a man’s fate? The easier decision for jurors is always to let the accused go free and then convince themselves that the Commonwealth failed to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Judge Samuels, I always try to select younger jurors. I think I can connect better with people closer to my age.”
“Mr. Darget, your thinking is flawed. Young people don’t have anything invested in this community. They come here to go to school and stay on for a few years to work and party before going back home. The people who have a stake in keeping crime down and sending guilty people to jail are the middle-aged and elderly homeowners.”
“You think I would have won this case if I’d picked a better jury?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But you need to pick better juries if you’re going to have a chance. You can’t just pick pretty young women you enjoy looking at. They distract you. And the men on your jury aren’t paying attention to the evidence.”
Judge Samuels was right. Connie stood up, deep in thought, and started to wander out of the judge’s chambers.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Darget,” Judge Samuels said.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. Thanks for the advice. I was just trying to figure out how to connect with older jurors once I’ve got them seated.”
“By being yourself. Don’t try copying what other people do in the courtroom. Develop your own presence. Don’t be discouraged, Mr. Darget. Keep practicing and you’ll see improvement. Remember the only way to practice is by trying cases in front of real juries.”
Connie later learned that Judge Samuels made it a point to summon each of the young lawyers in the DA’s office to his chambers for his critiques. The judge seemed to feel that it was his responsibility to act as a mentor. For Connie, the meeting was a watershed event in his career, leading him to a revelation about how to better prepare for trial and connect with jurors. He began to practice his openings and closings at home. He allowed his personality to come through so jurors would like him, trust him and convict the defendants he was prosecuting. Like small-time pusher Victor Carrasquillo.
“All the testimony you hear in this case will come from this witness stand.” Connie walked over and placed his hand on the rail in front of the stand. “These witnesses will tell you about what they observed on the day in question. They will tell you about the transaction they saw this defendant engage in with another individual. They will tell you about the drugs they recovered from this other individual. Finally they will tell you about the gun they recovered from the person of Victor Carrasquillo.”
Connie moved to the center of the courtroom, directly in front of the jury box, scanning the jurors. “But these witnesses aren’t ordinary witnesses. They aren’t just people off the street who have never seen a drug transaction before. The witnesses you will hear from in this case are all experienced officers who specialize in drug investigations. You will have the opportunity to see and hear them testify so that you can judge the credibility of their testimony.”
After losing so many trials early on, there had been times when Connie didn’t want to stand before another jury. Now things were different. He’d had more trials than any other prosecutor in the courthouse. Whenever there was a difficult case others were afraid to try, Connie would throw eight in the box and go. If he kept trying the tough cases, he knew that he would eventually achieve his dream of becoming one of the top prosecutors in the district attorney’s office.
CHAPTER 59
Using his fork, Angel Alves pushed the black beans on his plate, creating a small hill surrounded by a moat of yellow saffron rice, a chicken drumstick acting as a bridge across the moat.
He tried to avoid looking at Marcy. She seemed more sad than angry. She couldn’t be angry with him. She had lost an old friend too. Alves was sure she wanted him to do everything he could to catch the killer. But now she was losing her husband to the investigation. She’d made an attempt at conversation, telling him how Iris and Angel had done at gymnastics, but it was forced. All he could think about was how old Mrs. Stokes had looked the last time he saw her.
He had spent endless days calling funeral homes in the region, checking to see if they were missing embalming fluids and running the criminal records of all their employees.
One local place of interest was the boarded-up Jones Funeral Home in Mattapan. The business had been run into the ground by the son of the original owner. There was something about that fairly new lock to the basement and the way the son couldn’t find the key that nagged at Alves. Once they broke the lock and got in, they found a decent stock of dusty chemicals. Things looked pretty much undisturbed. But since the records were either damaged or lacking altogether, there was no way to tell if anything was missing.
Marcy started to clear the dishes. Alves felt guilty for not commenting on the meal or asking Marcy about her day. But he knew that it would lead to complaints about her getting stuck with the kids’ activities. Then she would feel selfish, knowing that he was doing this for Mrs. Stokes and for Robyn.
“I’m taking the kids in town tomorrow after school.” Marcy broke the silence. “We’re going to the aquarium.”
“That sounds like fun,” Alves said to the kids, trying to be festive.
“Daddy, can you come?” Iris looked up at him with her little smile. She was going to be beautiful like her mother.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but Daddy has to work tomorrow.”
“But you work every day,” Angel pleaded. “Why can’t you come with us tomorrow?”
“I just can’t, buddy. Once Daddy finishes working on this big case, he’ll take you guys somewhere fun.”
“Promise?” Iris asked.
“Cross my heart.” Alves caught Marcy’s eye as she sponged the table. “I’ll call the captain down at District 1 and see if he’ll let you park out front. Save some money.”
“We’re taking the train. I hate driving in traffic and the T is faster.”
Alves didn’t like the idea of her bundling up the twins and all they needed for a day at the aquarium onto the subway. He was all too familiar with the characters you found on the trains. And on their way home they’d have to deal with the rowdy teenagers getting out of school. But what else can you do?
It was so obvious that he was shocked they hadn’t thought of it before. People who live in the city take the T to work. They don’t waste time fighting traffic, finding a place to park. They relax and read the paper.
“Marcy, that’s it.”
“That’s what?”
“Angel, Iris, why don’t you guys go upstairs and play? Mommy and I will be up in a few minutes to get you ready for bed.” He waited until the two of them started up the stairs. He stood up and took out his cell phone. “That’s where he’s finding his victims. It has to be. All of the victims have been professional women who took the T into work every day. He didn’t meet them out at New Balance. If he did we’d probably have victims outside the city. He’s choosing his victims while they’re riding a train or a bus, oblivious that some psycho is watching them. Then he’s following them home so he can stalk them at his leisure before killing them.”
“My God.” Marcy gasped. “If this is true, you need to warn people.”
Alves hit the speed dial on his phone. “That’s why I’m calling Sarge.”
CHAPTER 60
Richter watched with disgust as Richard Speck pranced around his prison cell with his shirt off, flabby chest and stomach flopping around. He was showing off for the camera.
The documentary started with footage of the crime Speck had committed, murdering eight student nurses in their South Chicago town house. Initially, Speck had entered their apartment to commit a burglary
, forcing his way in with a gun and a knife. He found six women in the house and, over the next hour, three others returned home. He had planned to tie them up and rob them, but once he had them under his control he decided to rape, strangle and stab them too. He killed all of the women except for the one who had answered the door when he forced his way in. She had somehow managed to hide under a bed and Speck lost track of her. She later identified him by the tattoo on his forearm that read “Born to Raise Hell.”
Richter was especially bothered by the crime because Speck killed the women for no reason. For one moment in his sorry life, Speck found himself in a position of power, and he abused that power. He hadn’t killed the women for the good of society. He did it for pure self-gratification, and for that he deserved to rot in hell.
Speck had clearly developed a hatred for society. Now, sentenced to spend the rest of his life in jail, he acted for the cameras as if he were enjoying himself, as if he wanted to be the bitch of his very large prison cell mate. But his eyes told a different story. His laughter couldn’t hide the regret he must have felt for giving up his life for one night of squandered power. Now he had no power over anyone’s life, not even his own. All he could do was smile for the cameras in a final, pathetic attempt to hurt the families of the women he’d killed.
Speck had been aptly named, for he was nothing more than a small spot or particle, an insignificant dot. He was a person who had never done anything important.
Richter, on the other hand, had done so much to help others, to help them escape their worthless lives. More than that, he was helping to make the world a better place. From the moment he and Emily Knight conceived of the plan, Richter had acted for the benefit of all men, for the greater good, for society as a whole. He would continue with his work until it was complete, knowing that whatever he did, he would never end up like Richard Speck.
CHAPTER 61
I t was eight o’clock when Richter stepped off the bus, wishing he never had to ride the T again. He needed to be alone, not on a crowded bus. He wanted to get home so he could sit in the dark and collect his thoughts.
Then she tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir.”
Richter wasn’t in the mood to talk with anyone, to be nice to them. He didn’t have the patience for it. He turned to face her. The juror. He couldn’t remember her name, but she was a juror from a trial he’d lost several weeks earlier. His favorite juror, or so he’d thought. What did she want?
“Can I help you?” Richter asked, acting confused, as though he didn’t know who she was.
“Don’t you remember me? I sat on your jury a while back.”
“Ah, yes.” Richter thought about the case. The defendant was one of the major dealers in Grove Hall. “How are you doing?” he said in a forced, pleasant voice. Then he thought, maybe it was fate that had brought the two of them together. This was his chance to find out what they’d been thinking when they’d voted to acquit. “What was your name again?” Richter asked.
“Emily. Emily Knight.”
“Nice to see you again, Ms. Knight.”
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” she asked.
“As long as you don’t mind cutting through the woods.”
“Not if I’m with you,” she said, smiling. “I usually walk all the way around them. They give me the creeps.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” He’d spent weeks preparing for that trial to make sure he’d get a conviction. She and her fellow jurors had acquitted the defendant after only fifteen minutes of deliberation.
As they entered the woods Richter understood why she would think they were creepy, especially at night. The darkness and the leaves on the trees and thick shrubs made it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. They walked carefully along an asphalt path. There was no light except that provided by the moon.
“I’m glad I ran into you tonight,” the juror said. “I wanted to speak with you about the trial. I feel really bad about what happened. You did such a nice job. I could tell you’d put a lot of work into it. You were so upset when you heard our verdict. I waited to see you afterward, but you never came out of the courtroom.”
“I took the back stairs right up to my office.” Richter felt the first twinges of anger. She’d put a violent criminal back on the street.
“I wanted to let you know how we reached our verdict,” she said. “The other five jurors didn’t believe the police officers had actually seen the defendant hand the drugs to the other man. I believed it, though.”
Richter’s anger fanned out and turned hot in his stomach. All along he had thought that none of the jurors, including Emily Knight, believed the officers. “Why did you vote to acquit him if you believed he did it?”
“I held out as long as I could. Then I gave in to the pressure from the others.”
“You held out as long as you could?” His anger and frustration erupted. “You deliberated for fifteen minutes before lunch arrived and you had a verdict as soon as you finished eating. What did you do, vote to acquit once you found out they weren’t serving dessert?”
“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice cracking as if she was going to cry. “You don’t know how hard it was being the only one who thought he was guilty while everyone else was convinced that the police were lying. It didn’t help that there were no fingerprints or DNA linking him to the drugs.”
“No fingerprints or DNA, in a street-level drug case? You actually thought we should have submitted the drugs for DNA testing?” He was dumbfounded.
“That can happen. I’ve seen it on TV,” she said. “People always leave some biological or trace evidence when they commit a crime.”
“I can’t believe people watch so much television that it’s come to this.”
“Nobody’s blaming you. It’s not your job to test the evidence. And besides, what’s the big deal? All he did was sell one bag of heroin. It’s not like he hurt anyone.”
“It’s not like he hurt anyone?” Richter asked. Her eyes were wide with fright.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to calm him down. “I didn’t mean to upset you. He’s just a poor inner-city kid trying to make a living.”
She looked ahead, probably to see how far it was to the edge of the woods. Richter knew there was nothing but a long dark path.
“What if I told you that that ‘poor inner-city kid’ raped and killed a woman when he was sixteen years old just for shits and giggles? And what if I told you he only went to jail until he turned twenty-one?” He moved closer to her. “And what if I told you that he’s the main suspect in the murders of two of his competitors in the drug trade, but no one will come forward to testify because everyone’s terrified of him? And what if I told you that a drug conviction was the only way we were going to get him off the streets, at least for a couple of years?” Richter was now within inches of her face.
“You’re scaring me. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know he’d hurt anyone before, none of us did. If we’d known all that we would have convicted him.”
“You’re not supposed to know that. You were supposed to do your job. You knew he sold those drugs, but you let him get away with it because you were too lazy to do your job. You stupid bitch, you let a murderer go free.”
He could see terror in her eyes. She must have known she couldn’t calm him down. She turned away from him and stumbled down the path. She’d taken only a couple of steps before Richter caught her by the hair and dragged her backward. She started to scream. His first impulse was just to shut her up with a chin lock. Instinctively he spun her around and took ahold of her neck.
Richter lifted her in the air as she pounded at his arms. He held her tight. She was trying to speak, to beg or maybe to scream for help. But no words came. Richter watched her face as she struggled to breathe, but she was losing her strength. Finally her body relaxed.
He had to decide what to do with her. He sat her on the ground with her back against a tree, the moon lighting up her face. Her
milky white skin glowed in the moonlight. She had a pretty face, not beautiful, but certainly pretty. He touched her skin. So smooth. So young. Richter couldn’t just leave her in the woods. She deserved better than that.
CHAPTER 62
R ichter went to the back of the car and popped the trunk. “What are you staring at?” he asked Emily Knight. Her eyes were fixed open, gazing up at him. “It was your fault I had to kill you and you’re looking at me like I’m to blame. You’re lucky I came back for you.”
He took her by the belt and jacket collar, lifting her out of the trunk like the bales of hay he used to haul on his grandfather’s farm. Emily seemed heavier than the hay, and she was more awkward.
Richter was careful not to hit Emily’s head on anything. He carried her through the kitchen without turning on any lights.
Richter placed Emily on the couch and sat next to her, looking into her eyes, blank and cold. “I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I am in you,” he said.
Richter stood up and began pacing in front of the couch. “Do you realize how much aggravation you’re causing me? I need to figure out what to do with you. I didn’t want to leave you in the woods, but I can’t just bury you in the backyard either. If you had just done your job and followed the evidence, neither of us would be in this situation.”
But then Richter realized what he would do with Emily Knight. He would arrange it so that Emily would never let him down again. Richter lifted her up and placed her in his empty refrigerator. She would be fine in there while he made the arrangements.
But he needed to take his time and do things right.
CHAPTER 63
The late-spring light filtered in through the tall windows facing Huntington Avenue. The annual pottery sale at the Massachusetts College of Art was bustling with shoppers. Andi Norton browsed around from table to table hoping to find a gift for Connie. Andi and Monica Hughes had snuck out for some shopping on their lunch hour. Andi watched as Monica, two tables ahead of her, bought an oversized mug that came complete with hot herbal tea. Andi caught up with her and picked up a piece at the end of the table. “What do you think about this one?”
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